Done like wings 'n fries

Among the things I enjoy in life are:

1) beer

2) chicken wings

3) French-fried potaters, and

4) lounging in a state of semi undress after playing a hockey game.

Never have I experienced all four of these elements at once ... until now.

With our last game of the season having finished, we’re sitting around in our dressing room, some of us dressed only in towels, others still stewing in smelly hockey gear. Despite the late hour the arena concession people have stuck around and are sending regular food shipments into our room, and refusing to accept payment in return. And contrary to the norm, not a single member of our team has gone home, even though the game has been over for half an hour.

There’s a jovial, festive atmosphere in our room and in the room down the hall. Some of the opposition players are mingling in the hallway with some of our players, amicably rehashing the two-game final series. We’re one big, happy family even though one team is the league champions and the other isn’t.

I think we knew deep down that we weren’t going to win. We clung to the fact that these opponents, despite their superiority in speed and skill, needed overtime to beat us when we met them in the preliminary round. But in the final two games they didn’t leave much room for hope, beating us 6-3 and 3-1.

Our two 20-something players, one fresh out of junior B and the other a stalwart at the senior AA level, were more than capable of competing with those guys. But for the rest of us it was a stretch. They were simply faster, more skilled and better organized.

The loss is disappointing but there’s also satisfaction in the knowledge that, by reaching the final, we overachieved significantly. A decidedly mediocre team during the first half of the season, we went on an 8-2 tear to end the regular season. Then we took our team, a squad that’s relatively old, lacking in high-end skill, not particularly fast and not particularly great at passing, and made it to the final, eliminating some pretty strong teams along the way.

Our strengths were our workmanlike tenacity, a commitment to a structured defence and a solid young goaltender. It’s the best finish this team has ever posted in its history, which dates back about 20 years (this was my first season with them).

On a personal note, I found our playoff run to be exhilarating and fun, though I was disappointed to find I was no longer in very good shape as the season wound down. In the days leading up to the final two games I engaged in some workout cramming in an attempt to elevate my physical status. It helped a bit but there’s only so much you can do in a few days.

After our resounding loss in the first game of the final, I decided to abandon my strictly defensive style, recognizing that our team needed more offence. In the last game I let it all hang out, racing up the ice to join in our offensive attack, trying to do more with my chances to skate with the puck. These efforts didn’t generate any tangible results or affect the outcome of the game, but competing more on the edge like that made the game more fun.

As the party in the room continues, I’ve forgotten all about the physical pain I’ve endured during the past few weeks. I suppose these issues will fill the coming days with thoughts about my ability to continue playing at this level. But, for the moment, it’s time to savour what was a pretty fun ride.

A magical playoff run

Stock photo

I’m at work, sitting at my desk doing routine desk stuff but the day is anything but routine.

My body is buzzing with electrified dread and my stomach is a ball of writhing vipers. It’s game day.

My team in the midst of a solid playoff run despite having entered the post-season in fifth place in our 12-team league. Our Cinderella story could end tonight, however. Whoever loses is done.

I know that our opponents – let’s call them the Posies – will be eager to beat us, not only to keep their own playoff run alive, but to exact revenge for a bitter defeat we handed them two games ago.

These playoffs are set up as a double-elimination tournament, which means you play a different opponent each game and are eliminated if you lose two games. For our first matchup we beat the fourth-place team by a single goal in a fast and intense game. Next came the Posies – the first-place team – who we also beat by one goal in a game that was even more intense.

During this game, the Posies’ No. 19 was constantly taking runs at our players, being careless with his stick, berating the referees and generally behaving like he could snap at any moment.

The situation escalated during the handshake session after the final buzzer sealed our one-goal victory. One of my teammates, whom 19 had violently assaulted with his stick in the game’s waning seconds, refused to shake hands, causing 19’s perpetual frown to deepen noticeably.

When it came my turn to shake 19’s hand, it didn’t go well. You see, I had recently had my right hand crushed during an end-of-game handshake session. Whether or not it was intentional, I’m not sure, but I was determined to avoid a repeat occurrence.

So when it came my turn to shake 19’s hand, I made sure to get my hand right in there and I dialed up the PSIs to prevent him from overpowering me. I even adjusted my hand position mid-shake to ensure I was fully engaged. I’ve learned from experience that the most vulnerable position to be in is when you don’t get your hand in there all the way, leaving only your fingertips for the other guy to grab.

Anyway, as this handshake tête a tête unfolded, 19 thought my defensive posturing was an attempt to crush his hand. This lead to an exchange of glares and F-words, then some general milling around and arguing involving members of both teams.

After a few minutes of this, and having grown weary of the proceedings, I loudly reminded the Posies that the game was over and suggested they get off the ice.

“You’re going to have a heart attack,” one of their players said to me, a reference to my advanced age of 43, I guess.

“Huh, what’s that?” I said.

“You’re going to have a heart attack,” the guy repeated.

I was just pretending I hadn’t heard him. Really, I was trying to buy time until I could think of a zinger comeback. I had nothing.

“Huh? I can’t hear you,” I said again.

Real smooth, I thought to myself. This guy’s grinding your gears about being old and you pretend to be hard of hearing. Yeah, that’s some good trash talkin’ right there.

As No. 3 and I glared at each other, a different comeback finally materialized in my mouth and I spit it out without thinking.

“I can’t hear losers,” I said.

Well, the face of my trash-talking counterpart sagged as if I’d killed his dog and insulted his mother.

“I can’t believe you’d say something like that, calling us losers,” he moaned.

I was confused. Isn’t that the point of trash talking, to insult the other guy?

Anyway, the melee finally dispersed and we retreated to our respective dressing rooms. As I replayed the episode in my mind, I started feeling guilty about having been drawn into the melodrama. At the core of my concern was the knowledge that we could end up playing this team again in these very same playoffs, and if we did, they’d be looking for revenge both on the scoreboard and along the boards.

Sure enough, we lost our next game and the Posies won two in a row to earn a rematch with us, with the winner advancing to the finals. Which takes us to tonight’s game and today’s game-day jitters – not just about the game itself, but also about the game within the game.

So like I says, there I am at my desk with the day crawling by at glacial speed. Then I’m at home having supper then I’m putting kids to bed, all through a fog of slow motion, until I finally find myself driving to the arena.

In the dressing room prior to game time, as I apply protective armour to my body, I’m working hard to keep the butterflies in check and my body relaxed. A few minutes later, as I walk down the tunnel toward the ice surface, I force myself to stride with purpose, with my head up and an artificial swagger in my derriere. If I’m walking to my doom at least I’m going to do it with dignity, I figure.

Within the short distance from the dressing room to the ice surface I jettison all extracurricular concerns, leaving only one thought: time to just play.

Fast and close

The game is fast and close. In the early going one of our young guns scores on a breakaway. A little while later the Posies respond. It goes back and forth like that. It’s an intensely played game that’s forcing us to skate and pass more quickly than I would have thought we were capable. Thankfully, we’re keeping up OK and the game is all hockey – no B.S.

We’re clinging to a one-goal lead as the third period winds down, but they tie it up, sending the game into overtime.

As I’ve done all season, I’ve concentrated on playing a safe, defensive type of game, leaving the offence to our more skilled and fleet-footed players. But during the four-on-four overtime session an opportunity to generate an attack falls into my lap as I suddenly find myself with the puck at our blue line and some open ice in front of me.

Even though my legs are feeling lethargic, I feel obliged to try to make something happen, so I race into the Posies’ zone with as much speed as I can muster (which isn’t so much speed as it is a less exaggerated form of slowness).

Back in the day I would have found another gear and gone blazing wide on the defender without hesitation, which may have afforded me an unfettered path to the goal crease and a chance to score (which I would have frittered away).

However, this is 2014 and what actually happens is a pretty feeble attempt to dart into shooting position followed by a more feeble wrist shot that the goalie easily deflects to the corner.

Out of gas, I retreat to the bench. Shortly thereafter the five-minute overtime session ends and we head into a shootout to decide the game.

The Posies send out their first shooter and our goalie calmly turns him aside.

Our first shooter is the young gun who scored on the breakaway. He casually deposits the puck into the net.

Their next shooter meets the same fate as their first, setting us up for the potential game winner. We send out our next best young stud. He strides toward the goal, makes a move to deke then quickly fires a shot from close range.

The goalie crumples in an attempt to close his legs in time. From my spot on the bench I see a black speck emerge from behind the folded legs and fling itself soundlessly against the twine at the back of the net.

“Yes!”

Our bench erupts in unison and empties onto the ice. We’ve beaten the hated first-place team and we’re off to the final!

Later, in the dressing room, the beer tastes extra sweet and the satisfaction of a hard-fought victory is soothing the fatigue in my body. There’s no feeling quite like winning.

Except we haven’t really won anything yet. Next week we’ll engage in a best-of-three series for the league championship. Our opponent will be the team that has already beaten us once during these playoffs. And the series will unfold over the course of four days.

The prospect of playing that much hockey within such a short span is both exciting and daunting. It won’t be easy on my body, which has grown weary in the season’s late stages.

So, while I bask in the satisfaction of victory tonight, and take a day to recover tomorrow, I know that the following days will involve merging my butt with my training ground as I prepare for next week’s ultimate battle.

The aging Sea King

Source: National Post

Wow, the hockey season has flown by.

When I last checked in, winter hadn’t officially begun and the hockey season was relatively young. I had just proven that a middle-aged man can engage in outdoor, hockey-focused training even during harsh winter-like conditions. The table was set for a productive and transformational hockey season.

Suddenly four months have flashed past. It’s spring, the season is in its last throes and I’ve learned a couple things.

The first thing I learned is that, even though it’s physically feasible to venture outside on cold winter nights to engage in sprinting and other forms of goal-oriented torture, it’s not something I want to do regularly. Looking back at my workout log, it appears that I managed to do some sort of exercise about once every seven to 10 days, really just a scattering of token exercise attempts. Clearly the vein of motivation I tapped during last fall’s initial rush of conditioning ran dry.

I also learned that working out the day before a game is a bad idea, as this forces my legs to engage in strenuous propulsion activities when they are still recovering from the violence of the workout. Not a happy mix.

Overall I learned that playing once a week effectively removes three potential workout days from my weekly schedule: the day before, the day of, and the day after a game (for recovery reasons). And any of the four remaining days can be easily derailed by any number of issues: it’s a Friday and I’m tired from a grueling week of editing newspapers, I’ve worked late that day and don’t have the time or energy to work out, the moon is in a phase that’s ill-suited for exercise, there’s something on TV, the dog’s water bowl is nearly empty ... the reasons are many and some of them are flimsy, but there you go.

The result of all of the above is that my conditioning has gradually backtracked as the season has wore on. I’ve noticed lately that my legs are a little less strong, a little more rubbery than they were earlier in the season. Executing quick turns and sudden accelerations have become laborious once again. During games I’ve caught myself sneaking peaks at the game clock, hoping for the ends of periods so I can get an extra breather. And by the end of games I feel a little worn out, almost as much as I used to before I started training.

I think my attempts to get into shape did make me more capable of playing at the level of the men’s league in which I play, which features fairly fast and skilled action. Without the base of conditioning that I hastily built at the beginning of the season, I would probably have been a very marginal player. As it was, I gauge that I was a notch or two above marginal, but I was definitely not a game breaker. I settled into my role as a stay-at-home defenceman, a player who could be counted on to be solid defensively (in theory, at least) and offer next to nothing in terms of offensive punch other than the willingness and ability to move the puck efficiently to the faster, more skilled players.

Aches and pains

Apart from the conditioning side of it, my season has been marked by physical discomfort.

The knee I injured last summer has flared up a few times, confirming my belief that there’s something structurally unsound in there. I’m getting it checked out.

And one of my hips, which has been a nagging source of ache on and off for a few years, has become stiff and sore on a semi-permanent basis, to the point that it’s starting to hamper my on-ice mobility. I’m having that checked out too.

Which brings me to my latest analogy: the Sea King. These are large military helicopters used by forces around the world, including the Canadian Forces. In service in Canada since 1963, these units have been earmarked for replacement since 1983 but the government hasn’t quite gotten around to that yet. One oft-publicized stat is that these aircraft require more than 30 hours of maintenance for every hour of flight.

I can relate. Sure, I can turn in a solid hour of hockey performance every week, but in order to do so, my body needs to spend the rest of the week propped up on jacks with various cowlings removed so a team of dedicated service personnel can overhaul my weary innards. Of course the infrastructure and financing just aren’t in place for such rigorous maintenance so I’m making do by following up each “flight” by lubricating my innards with generous dousings of Budweiser and dashes of hope that the problems will just go away.

This is, after all, beer-league hockey and that’s how we drop the puck, so to speak.

Idiot vs. the elements

My training ground

You’re not supposed to lie down to recover from the exertion of running hard. I’m not sure why, but that’s what I was taught by former coaches and phys-ed teachers. So it’s with a slight pang of guilt that I’m lying on the snow-packed road in my subdivision, panting hard and gazing up at a sky matted with brilliant stars.

I’m recovering from my most recent round of wind sprints, which remain every bit as agonizing as they were three months ago when I first started training.

Due to a bout of extreme busy-ness that recently infected my life, this is my first workout in 10 days. It’s also my first attempt at training under bona fide winter conditions. It’s about minus seven degrees Celsius (19 degrees Fahrenheit).

Even here in Canada, where winters are cold, white and long, many hard-core distance runners maintain their habit year round, making sub-zero forays onto streets and trails in their form-fitting, technical garb. If that’s a look you’re picturing in your mind, get rid of it, because I’m not looking anything like that.

I’m dressed as if I’m out for a round of tobogganing: felt-lined boots, ski gloves, toque, ski jacket, shell pants. Beneath this outer coating are sweat pants and a sweatshirt preceded by a neck-to-ankle encasement of moisture-wicking underwear.

I’m 20 minutes into my workout so I’m warmed up. My face and neck feel fresh from the cool air but all my other parts are nice and comfortable. Overall, the cold isn’t a factor.

I do, however, feel ponderous and heavy under all the layers of clothing. My boots are particularly unwieldy, feeling as cumbersome as snowshoes, but they provide the traction I need for sprinting. It’s tough getting my legs moving with all the extra bulk attached to them but I feel that this increased resistance will lead to increased strength.

I loll about on the ground for a couple of minutes then I’m back on my feet and finishing up my sprints. Then I’m off to the garage for a quick blast of the thighs with the barbells. This has become the core of my workout routine: sprint then squat, sprint then squat, every day or two.

Back for more

About 48 hours later I’m in the house preparing for another workout. Outside it’s dark and snowing, the wind whistling wildly as the treetops whip around like Medusa’s hair. I decide to restrict my activities to indoors, but as I prepare to head to the garage for some footwork and weight training, I feel disappointment and guilt welling up inside me. While I want to avoid the discomfort of going outside, I feel that I should do my sprinting, as I view this as the most important component of my workout scheme.

So, despite my powerful desire to stay inside where it’s warm and dry, I find myself outside in the swirling elements, bundled up in one-piece lined coveralls and moving like an astronaut on a space walk.

It’s not overly cold, just a bit below freezing, but the wind is gusting furiously, fanning the falling snow into a frothy airborne frenzy.

After a bit of footwork to warm up my legs, I take off down the road for my first of six sprints. My eyes involuntarily blink like windshield wipers on the fastest setting but still I can’t keep up with the deluge of flakes pin-pricking me in the face.

For my second sprint set I try alternating my blinking – left, right, left, right – as quickly as I can, so I have one eye open and one eye closed at all times. This is a bit more effective, and a great workout for my eyelids, which I now realize I’ve been neglecting since I started this training kick. I also realize, a bit too late, that my wife has a pair of ski goggles that would have come in handy in this situation.

At any rate, despite its assault on my eyeballs, this blizzard workout is a success. My only niggle is that, by the time I’ve completed six rounds of running, I’m just roasting inside my full body suit. Off I go to the garage, where I peel off the coveralls, releasing a puff of pent-up steam. It’s squat time.

Round three

Two days later I’m back at it yet again, and back to wearing my shell pants and ski jacket. This time the mercury is wallowing in -18 territory (about zero Fahrenheit).

The air is plenty cold but my saving grace is that it’s very still, which makes a huge difference. Once my body is warmed up, I’m nice and toasty under my layers of protection. The only exposed skin is my face and it’s leathery enough to be bothered little by the benign bite of cold.

Surprisingly, this third winter workout is also a success, but I don’t think I’d want to venture out if it was any colder. I make a mental note to adopt -20 as the cutoff temperature for outdoor exercise.

So there you have it, three outdoor winter workouts in drastically different conditions, and all three a resounding success. I guess that puts to rest the doubt I had in my mind about the viability of continuing my training regime through the winter months. This is excellent, as I’ll be able to madly sprint my way toward beer-league glory all winter long.

On the downside, I have no excuse not to keep working out ... all winter long.

The flight of the bumblebee

In previous blog posts I’ve compared myself to the following creatures:

- A gopher

- A Canada goose

- A cross between a fattened bull and Bambi

- A wolf

- A caribou

- A wet dog

- A square dancer

- A thoroughbred

- A stallion

Obviously, my similes and metaphors are already horribly mixed, so there shouldn’t be further harm caused by the fact that I now view myself as a bumblebee. We’ll get to that in a moment. But first I want to pick up where I left off with my previous blog post, in which I assigned grades to my training scheme based on the four rules I laid out in the beginning. I now want to move beyond those grades and assess this project from a broader, more holistic viewpoint.

Let’s begin by discussing motivation. From the time I was a youth up until my mid-20s or so, I enjoyed taking on physical challenges, pushing my body and feeling it respond. I derived satisfaction from the exhaustion that followed. This desire to prove myself physically waned gradually over the years. By the time I hit my 30s, it was just a memory. When I first started this training, I found it to be quite exhilarating and felt a resurgence in the thrill of engaging in physical exploits. Motivation wasn’t a factor. It was just present in an endless supply.

In recent weeks this rekindled interest in physical conquests has withered away to nothing once again. And having experienced less drastic improvements to my hockey performance than I would have liked, I’m now finding that my motivation levels are drooping a bit. I’m still getting out there for my workouts but I’m not bounding to them like I was in the beginning.

The weather is another drain on the motivation. When I started training at the end of August there was a nice heat wave going, so even when I ventured outside for late evening workouts it was still warm enough for shorts and a T-shirt.

By mid-October I was faced with layering up to venture out into temperatures that were sometimes flirting with the freezing mark. It was a bit tougher to muster the energy for that. Now there’s snow on the ground, ice on the road and the mercury seems like it’s dipped below the freezing mark for good. I haven’t yet ventured out into these icy environs but I will try. I’m not looking forward to it but I don’t have much choice as I have nowhere to go for indoor training sessions.

I think a good way to assess my training exploits would be to apply a simple cost-benefit analysis, weigh the physical gains I’ve experienced against the amount of energy I’ve expended. Since I’m lacking the capacity to do this with quantitative measures, I’m left with my gut feel as a measuring tool. The conclusion is rather grim, I’d say. 

This is where the bumblebee analogy comes in. Most of us are probably aware of that old yarn about the bumblebee being physically incapable of flight, scientifically speaking, due to its large girth and feeble wing span, but it flies anyway simply because it’s just not that into science. 

Well, in this analogy, I’m an aged, decrepit bumblebee and flight is my fitness level, but in my case it’s looking like the scientists have a point.

With my hockey training, I worked my tail off to become airborne and now I feel like I’m expending a ton of energy just so I can hover slightly above the grass. If I ease up at all, by missing a workout for a few days in a row, I’ll come crashing down to earth with alarming speed. It’s as if age has increased the earth’s gravitational pull on me by at least 30 per cent.

The bottom line for me is this: my workouts have become a chore, a means to an end. Yes, they are making my hockey-playing experience more enjoyable, but they are not enjoyable in and of themselves.

My beer-league hockey hobby would be much more enjoyable if it involved simply playing more hockey. But I don’t have the time or money for that.

I feel like I’m at a crossroads, with two distinct paths lying before me: either accept an endless string of drudgerous workouts just to remain aloft, or succumb to the laws of physics and accept that I’m destined to become slower and more lethargic.

If I choose option two, I might as well also embrace 4 p.m. suppers, hotly-contested cribbage matches, and yes, shuffleboard ... sweet, sweet shuffleboard.

Report card time

Well, I’m approaching 60 days into this thing and I think it’s time to step back and assess how it’s going. For starters, let’s have a look at the rules I laid out in my second blog post and assign some grades.

Beer league training shall:

1) Cost no money

I haven’t spent one dime on this new hobby, although this may have to change soon as my running shoes are on the verge of falling apart. Also, I think a powder blue track suit would be just the thing to take this to the next level, fashion-wise.

Grade: A

2) Be a one-man show

Apart from a couple lapses during which I used my kids as barbells, I’ve avoided dragging anyone into this personal journey of mine. There have been some secondary repercussions due to the time I now spend time outside most evenings rather than inside with my betrothed discussing politics or viewing the latest television serial.

Grade: A-

3) Fit into my current lifestyle

As I’d planned, I’ve cut out my nightly Xbox habit and have slipped in hockey training. In that sense, it’s been a seamless transition. However, there’s more to it than that. My video game time used to come at the end of my evening, as my reward for having done my various duties. With the new routine I’ve established, my hockey training is the first thing I do when my personal evening time kicks in, since it requires energy and is mainly done outside – I don’t want to leave it too late. This shift in timing has, in effect, elevated my new hobby to top priority status whereas other tasks like doing the dishes or organizing the garage should maybe be in that spot. 

And yes, my training has become somewhat of an obsession and it’s a challenge keeping it to 30 minutes a day. The workouts leave me feeling tired – a deep, radiating fatigue that causes snores to emanate from the very core of my bones – which means I don’t always accomplish anything concrete afterward. Call this a work in progress.

Grade: B-

4) Not include guilt

There have been a few times when I’ve missed a workout and have felt pangs of disappointment that were trending toward guilt, but I’ve kept those feelings in check. Now that I’m working out regularly, I feel like I’m entitled to my other indulgences, such as eating too much munchies and consuming too much soda, so I’m feeling less guilty about those things than I did before. Aha, there are side benefits to getting in shape!

Grade: A

Averaged out, when assessed based on these rules, the success of my hockey training endeavour comes in at about an A-. That ain’t not bad, to borrow a line from Bart Simpson.

However, as we’ll see in my next blog, there are other criteria that call into question the long-term viability of this whole scheme.

The rise of the 150-pound stallion

An ice pack becomes my bosom buddy for the next couple of days. I clutch it to the back of my leg at every opportunity: in the car, at my desk at work, at the kitchen table, on the couch.

The first day after the injury I’m very sore and limpy so I take a break from all forms of training. On the second day the leg feels well enough for some footwork drills but is too sore for any sprinting.

The third night is a game night. My leg doesn’t hamper my performance but I feel a bit like my old self: sluggish and slow. Oh well, it’s only beer league.

The next day my leg still feels fine so, come evening, I’m ready to try an all-out sprint session. After my warmup, I let ‘er rip and my leg holds up fine. I complete a full complement of sprint intervals and all my limbs remain intact. Yes! I declare the injury overcome. This brings great relief as I’d initially worried that the injury was much more serious.

I then repair to the garage for some squat exercises with a barbell across my shoulders. I do 10 reps with 110 pounds on the bar then venture up to 120 pounds for four more reps.

These squat exercises I view as my main tool for addressing one of my greatest conditioning shortcomings: poor leg strength, which translates to poor speed on the ice.

A couple days after declaring my injury cured I try squatting 140 pounds, which is just 10 pounds shy of my body weight. This is heavy work for me but I handle four reps without incident. Based on previous conversations with hockey conditioning experts, my plan with these squats is to focus on big weight and few reps, probably every second day or so, to allow the muscles to rebuild in between. This is what sprinters do and I’m essentially a sprinter in training, given that a hockey shift is basically a series of quick, powerful, explosive movements.

As I progress in my development of a sprinter’s body, I’ve noticed that I’m also starting to develop a sprinter’s attitude. During the rest periods between wind sprints I’m starting to chuff and strut like a high-strung stallion, my rump stuck out haughtily to the rear and my chest puffed out to the front. As I move, my arms and legs bow out wide, away from my body, as if to accommodate some massive bulk. The natural progression of this machismo-laden peacockery is that my great chest gets repeatedly thumped and my arms find reason to repeatedly point this way and that, as if I’m hailing supporters in the crowd.

This is all imagined, of course. My blown-up bravado is visible only to shadowy thickets of trees. But that doesn’t matter. When you’re a strutting stallion, it’s not about the crowd, it’s about the proud.